


Contretemps

by Elaur



Category: RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaur/pseuds/Elaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando Bloom is an adrenaline junkie, but Cillian Murphy may turn out to be too much to handle...and will Orlando take that last step?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted first part to my LiveJournal account in August of 2004 and just recently finished! Like they said, it's never too late until you're dead...

Orlando pulled out a script from a large brown padded envelope his agent had sent him, a big fluorescent pink Post-It note with the words “This looks like a good one!” on the title sheet.

Well, he might as well look at it. After all, he was bored and it was too bloody hot—even worse than Morocco-to do anything. At least there it was a _dry_ heat. He snorted at the cliché, but the dripping humidity of Kentucky was slowly killing him. He never thought he’d miss the cool rain and overcast days of London, but then again, even too much of a good thing was bad, as his mum was fond of saying.

He flipped the title sheet over and read the detailed note from his agent. Danny Boyle was directing, which caused his heart rate to rise considerably in excitement. _Trainspotting_ and _28 Days Later_ were a couple of Orlando’s all time faves. And, dear god, Cillian Murphy, star of _28 Days Later_ , had signed on as well, making him even more excited about the project. But what blew Orlando away was that they’d specifically asked for him to be on the project.

He took a deep calming breath and flipped to the summary and character sheet for his role.

 _”Jamie Hopkins – the cheerful and foul-mouthed, baby-faced bartender in a rough East-end pub, who loves to chat up the patrons but keeps a bobby’s billy club close at hand.”_

Orlando pursed his lips at the “baby-faced” part, but he read on.

Cillian Murphy was slated to play Danny Cleary, _”the Irish tough he befriends, who inadvertently embroils him in a drug-running scheme to Spain that turns deadly.”_

Orlando scratched his temple. _Sounds pretty tame for a Boyle project…_ he thought.

 _Was it all a_ contretemps— _an unfortunate situation—or was Jamie being used…?”_

Orlando settled in the armchair with his feet up on the wide footstool, a tall glass of ice-choked cola beside him, and began to read.

~~~

Orlando was thrilled to be in London again; thrilled to be able to sleep in his own house, instead of a hotel room, thrilled to be able to see his mum and sister for longer than a weekend.

He’d immediately called his agent that same night, from Kentucky, to sign him on to Danny Boyle’s project. At the moment, he wasn’t thinking of how this film would further his career. The fact that he would be filming in London for three months, be able to go home every night, hang out at the pub with his old mates, and eat his mum’s cooking, was enough for him. Well, yes, of course, this was an amazing project, with lots of scenes that would stretch and challenge his acting abilities, but that’s what agents and managers were paid to find for him.

He lay on his bed, in his house, and stretched his arms and legs, tight from the long flight, and groaned happily. He hadn’t told anyone yet he was home, or the phone would already be ringing off the hook from family and friends requiring his immediate appearance. He wanted to relax and rest up, something he’d done very little of in the last year.

He felt a twinge of guilt, especially about not telling Mum, but he figured he deserved some peace and quiet. No one wanting something from him, whether it was to show up on set, or a little girl asking for an autograph.

He patted his hand across the mattress until he found what he sought, bringing it up to his face to look at. The script, no longer pristine, was dog-eared and had whole sections underlined, notes and questions all over it, in the margins and on the backs of the sheets. He had marked up all the character points in the script because if Orlando knew anything, it was East-end boys. If he had to drag Danny Boyle to an East-end pub to see the real thing, he would.

Contemplating his character and his possible back-story, Orlando fell dead asleep, still fully clothed, only to be jerked awake the next morning by his cell phone in his jeans’ pocket.

~~~

Orlando was early. He was always bloody early. He sat at the long table, sipping a cup of hot tea—real British tea, not some anemic American version of tea, or worse, iced—and flipped through his ratty script. There was a notepad and a sharp pencil at his elbow, which he made immediate use of, writing down the questions and suggestions he had, so he wouldn’t be fumbling to find them later.

“Jaysus, you look bloody prepared. I’m scared of _you,_ ” a heavily Irish-accented voice grumbled, startling Orlando from his concentration.

He looked up into sea-green eyes and a mischievous smile. “Orlando Bloom, right?” he continued, holding out his hand for a shake. Orlando stared for a moment, awestruck by the man’s beauty. His shiny black hair intensified the paleness of his skin and made his eyes luminous. How could someone look better in person than on screen?

“Ye-es,” Orlando finally replied, almost adding ‘How did you know?’ He took hold of the other man’s hand and shook it tentatively, which was unlike him. “Cillian Murphy. You were brilliant in _28 Days_ , mate. I love that damn movie.”

Cillian grinned and the room suddenly seemed much brighter. “Thanks, mate. It was brilliant making it. I had a blast.” He looked around at the people straggling into the room and leaned forward conspiratorially, causing an unexpected shiver to go down Orlando’s spine. “I’m impressed with you, mate. Playing Legolas, man—you had no real lines, but fuck if I could keep my eyes off you when you were onscreen.” He nodded quite seriously and then winked, and Orlando’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment and pleasure and—something else. Thankfully, there was no time to make a reply, even if he could think of one, as the director had finally made it in and the meeting started.

~~~

They finally got down to the business of doing a run-through, after the intros were made and Boyle had made the requisite welcoming speech. As with Boyle's other films, the main cast was pretty small, with Cillian and Orlando’s characters having most of the lines. Suddenly Orlando felt everyone’s eyes on him and he started to get The Cold Sweats as he called them: the rush of adrenalin that usually accompanied one of his headlong charges into danger.

He looked up from his notes to see Cillian grinning at him, giving him a surreptitious thumbs-up and a wink. Orlando locked eyes with him, his heart leaping into a gallop, and played to an appreciative audience of one.

Scene after scene, picked by Boyle himself, Orlando and Cillian went at it, eyes boring into each other, the sparks visceral. He’d had this sort of eye connection before, with Viggo in Rings, and Eric in Troy, something he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. The intensity was—almost—sexual. It was something he couldn’t understand and it frightened him. He liked girls, after all, not boys…men… whatever. But Orlando found himself watching Cillian’s lips move, forming the words, his tongue peeking from behind white teeth to lick pink lips, a sensual dance that made him feel lightheaded and confused.

“Bloody hell,” Boyle muttered, grinning like a fiend. “Do I know what I’m doing or what?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Right. Let’s take a break. We’ll do these other poor sods in a bit.”

Orlando sat back in his chair with a whoosh of exhaled breath, and then took a swig from his water bottle. Some people got up to use the facilities or grab a smoke, but most stayed to confer with Boyle. Cillian caught his eye and motioned to the door with his head and got up. Orlando followed him out, a bit apprehensive.

Cillian leaned his back against the wall, knee bent and his dirty trainer pressing up against the wall as well. He lighted a ciggie and offered Orlando the pack.

“Thanks, mate, but I’m trying to quit,” Orlando told him.

Cillian looked at him in disbelief, then shrugged and stuffed the pack back in his shirt pocket. “Suit yourself. Listen, that was pretty hot and wild in there. I could tell Boyle’s impressed with you.”

“Really?” Orlando asked, quite ingenuously, making Cillian laugh.

“Really,” he answered, quite seriously. “And he doesn’t give out compliments easily. But he’s a great director to work for. Likes actors, so he gives us a lot of headroom to be creative. In fact he wants you and me to ‘bond.’ Like real mates, you know? Hang out and pub crawl, get in scraps, live the life that Jamie Hopkins and Danny Cleary would.”

Orlando opened his mouth to say _Fuck, I’m dead._ But instead his snark instinct took over and he said, “I’m not a method actor.”

Cillian let out a whoop of laughter and Boyle’s voice came from behind them. “I know you aren’t, lad.” Both men immediately turned toward him. He’d been peeking from the slightly open door, then slipped out into the hall with them. He grinned at them. “That was before I saw that you two have It, that elusive pot of gold we film makers call _chemistry.”_

He put his arms around both men and led them down the hall. “What’s life all about lads?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Sex and power. Money’s just a tool to get those two things. The manipulation of those two in varying degrees is what makes the world go round… It’s what excites the masses the most…”

Orlando glanced at Cillian, who looked like he’d heard this speech before. He personally didn’t like to think about things that way, but it made for a twisted sort of logic. They’d reached the end of the hall and Boyle turned them around.

“…and boys, you have that. Both of you. Not just individual sex appeal… I’m talking about your chemistry together. Raw sex. I could almost smell it. It will drive everyone mad with lust.”

Orlando’s mouth gaped and he stared at Boyle in shock at the voicing of his own fears and confusion. Cillian howled with laughter. “Danny, you’ve scared the shit out of him!”

Boyle let go of Cillian to place both hands on Orlando’s shoulders. He stared into Orlando’s eyes with a calculating look. “You don’t see it, do you, lad?” he whispered.

“See what?” Orlando croaked, terrified the man would just come out and say it.

Boyle didn’t answer for a moment, searching Orlando’s wide panicked eyes. “Maybe you do, but …” He shook his head as if amused and turned to Cillian. “You’ll show him, yes?” he asked.

It was Cillian’s turn to give Orlando a calculating stare, softened by a humor-cocked eyebrow. “If he’ll let me.”

Boyle snorted. “Just be gentle, will you? I don’t want the lad to go crying to his agent.”

Not sure if he was making a joke or not, Orlando stiffened but decided to ignore the insult altogether.

“Mr. Boyle,” he said in his most professional tone of voice. “I was wondering if we could speak about my ideas on Jamie’s character?”

Boyle smiled like a shark and opened the conference door. “Absolutely. That’s next on the agenda. After you,” he added, waving both men in before him.

~~~

Orlando lay in bed much later that night, belly happily full with Mum’s good food, and stared at the ceiling, analyzing every look, every movement, every word spoken by both Boyle and Cillian. He finally gave up, not being able to give unequivocal meaning to any of it.

 _Besides,_ he realized finally. _It really has nothing to do with_ them _but everything to do with_ me.

Indeed. The struggle was his alone. Boyle just wanted to make an excellent movie, by whatever means he was able. And Boyle was known for his guerilla tactics. He didn’t make “comfortable” movies. He made movies that made people squirm and look at things in a different light. And he expected the same ruthlessness from his actors. Cillian was obviously well acquainted with the man’s methods, and had a grittiness and honesty himself that didn’t shy away from using assault methods to get the job done.

And they obviously expected the same from him.

 _So just what am I afraid of?_

~~~


	2. Chapter 2

Orlando opened his eyes blearily to the sun streaming cheerfully through the window, belying his unsettled and dark dreams. He hadn’t slept well at all, even though exhausted from the six hour meeting with Danny Boyle and his fellow cast members. Of course, a lot of his exhaustion came from dealing with an eruption of frightening feelings he thought he’d safely locked away, engendered by mischievous sea-green eyes and an Irish brogue. He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to dispel the memory of Cillian’s beautiful face.

Instead of getting some peace, another pretty face floated in his mind’s eye…a face that refused to be forgotten, even though he’d seen it for only a minute, the same night of Elijah Wood’s famous drunken request for “porno and chocolate” in a New Zealand convenience store during the filming of Rings.

He shifted uncomfortably, kicked off the duvet, and pounded the pillow behind his head, but the memory played on like a video he didn’t want to see—and he couldn’t find the remote to turn it off.

 _It was one of those damnable drinking contests he always got roped into by the Hobbits. This time it was shots of Jägermeister. He didn’t even like Jägermeister, but when one of the Hobbits got something in his head, you couldn’t dislodge it except with a blow to the skull. When he started getting queasy, he went up to the bar with Brett, Gimli’s size double, to get a couple of beers. He liked to hang out with Brett because they always got free drinks and the girls seemed to come around for some reason. It was crowded as hell so Orlando hoisted Brett up onto the bar. That got them immediate attention from the bartender, who told them to get the fuck off. So Orlando asked for two beers and got them straight away. Both of them glowing with success and alcohol, they turned back towards their table only to be confronted by a tall thin boy with a beautiful face and thick, dark hair falling over his forehead into light-colored eyes, wearing tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination, a black tank top, eyeliner and lipstick. He had a cigarette hanging from his pouty pink lips, which he pulled sensuously away with the tips of his fingers._

 _“Nice trick,” he said, looking Orlando up and down, and settling on his crotch, causing an electric current to bolt from the top of Orlando’s head to his toes. He nodded toward Brett. “Maybe I should get myself a dwarf to get a drink in this dump.” he added._

 _Brett huffed and toddled off with his pint to join the Hobbits, leaving Orlando alone with the unsettling creature. “You hardly need anything else to attract attention,” Orlando blurted involuntarily._

 _“You think?” the boy asked, moving in closer and making it hard for Orlando to breathe. He smiled and ran a finger down Orlando’s chest, causing his nipples to harden unexpectedly. “Not the kind I prefer most of the time, unfortunately.”_

 _“I’m sorry,” Orlando mumbled, rather inanely._

 _The boy took another puff on his ciggie and blew a smoke ring towards Orlando’s face. “Perhaps you’d like to change my luck?” he asked, licking his bottom lip slowly. For a moment Orlando felt The Cold Sweats, in the same way he felt them right before he threw himself off the platform for his bungee jump._

 _The boy smiled knowingly and tossed his head in the direction of the back of the bar. “I know a private place…”_

 _Orlando blinked several times in succession and was just about to take that lethal step when he heard the Hobbits calling his name. He looked over at them and they waved him over._

 _He looked back at the boy, who shrugged. “Not my night, I guess,” he said philosophically, and shoved his way into the crowd at the bar._

Orlando still wondered what would have happened if the Hobbits hadn’t called him away. Would he really have gone with the beautiful boy to his mysterious private place? What would they have done there? There were questions that had no answers and answers that he didn’t want to contemplate. He could usually keep them, all the memories, all the feelings, in their own little locked box. Eric Bana had almost broken the lock on the set of Troy. There’d been a lot more violent banging around that Eric had done with him, a lot more intense eye-gazing that didn’t make it into the film. Naturally, Wolfgang didn’t want the sizzling scenes to involve the brothers. The film was about Helen and Paris, after all. And Eric was married, with a small child. Something that was sacred to Orlando. So he kept the box locked up tight.

But now Cillian… Cillian seemed to have found the box, if not the key—and taken an axe to it.

Orlando tossed in the bed, staring intently at the clock, but trying to think about his schedule and not about those sea-green eyes and smooth pink lips was futile.

All that talk about “bonding,” sex appeal, chemistry and raw sex—and what the fuck did Boyle mean about Cillian “showing him” something?

Orlando rubbed his face in frustration and sat up. Well, there was nothing he could do, other than tread lightly and keep his eyes peeled. He would find out eventually. But Orlando found it hard to be passive. He needed action; he needed to be on the offensive, instead of a defensive position. Instead of waiting to find out where Cillian stood, he should get him to state it unequivocally, and end this childish guessing game. He’d invite him out for a pint or six at the local. Or maybe even one of the rougher ones around his part of town, to show him how the London boys lived and drank.

The memory of the pretty boy reared up again, that finger sliding down his chest as he stood in that noisy, smoky Auckland pub. Only, this time, the face was that of Cillian’s.

“Bloody hell, Bloom. Get your arse in gear,” he commanded, sliding off the bed and heading toward the shower. He was scheduled to spend the entire bloody day in costuming, something he didn’t care for, not since having had to spend weeks standing with his arms sticking out for the costuming in Rings. At least here, though, it couldn’t be anything more complicated than jeans and t-shirts, and maybe a jumper or two. Or Cillian might be there…

Well, hope sprang eternal, as Mum always said.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

Cillian _had_ been there in costuming, and while Orlando had difficulty not staring at him as he shucked his clothes to try on something else, he’d kept Orlando gasping with laughter at his anecdotes about Boyle, the gags on the set of 28 Days Later and his experiences with the period costuming for _Girl With A Pearl Earring_ and _Cold Mountain._

Orlando wondered if it was an innate talent of the Irish to be such amusing storytellers. Cillian seemed to find everything hilarious, and often joined in the laughter with Orlando, sometimes not able to finish a tale from laughing so hard. His own stories seemed flat by comparison, although Cillian laughed in all the right places, and seemed immensely interested in anything regarding Sean Bean.

By the end of the day, even though tired and stiff from standing around and being measured and changing outfits three hundred times, Orlando felt confident enough to ask Cillian about going out for a pint as they walked to the car park. Cillian was walking jauntily, his leather jacket half on, half off as he fumbled around for his ciggies, and looked up at Orlando as he voiced his invitation.

Orlando’s belly quivered when Cillian stopped to light up, looking thoughtful. He’s gonna say, Thanks, but I already have plans, mate, he thought, suddenly feeling twelve years old again and asking his first crush to the school dance.

“We-ell, I’ve got a short meeting with Danny-boy, and I was gonna grab a bite with him… Tell you what. Come with me, I’m sure he won’t mind, and we’ll pub-crawl after.” He threw his leather-clad arm around Orlando’s shoulders and grinned. “Besides, we’re supposed to be mates, right?”

Orlando, breathless from the close contact, did not reply. He could smell the leather of the jacket and the spicy scent of his cologne, mixed up with the subtle scent of his body. He felt suddenly lightheaded and barked a laugh at the image of the blood leaving his head to engorge his nether regions, something his sister always pointed out was the main reason men thought with the wrong head.

“Right!” Cillian shouted cheerfully, mistaking the laughter for agreement, and squeezed Orlando’s shoulder, letting go to give him a good slap between the shoulder blades. Obviously unaware of Orlando’s predicament, he invited Orlando to come along with him on his new Honda motorcycle.

Fuck, was all Orlando could think of, as he surreptitiously adjusted himself in his now-too-tight jeans.

~~~  
The bike, sleek and black and seemingly straight out of a sci-fi flick, glittered under the sodium lamps of the car park. It already looked as if it was doing 90mph sitting still.

Orlando’s heart thumped wildly with excitement, and he grinned at Cillian, who returned it with a slow-spreading grin of his own. He handed Orlando the extra helmet.

“It’s called a FireBlade. Like to go fast?” he asked, his eyes dark and mysterious in the odd yellow light. Taking it as a rhetorical question, Orlando laughed with delight and put on the helmet, tightening the strap. Cillian swung a leg over the bike, put on the helmet as Orlando hopped on behind him. Aware of their closeness and grateful for the elevated rear seat keeping his groin away from Cillian’s back, Orlando gripped the handholds tightly.

Cillian leaned his head back to touch Orlando’s helmet with his. “Hold on, mate!” he yelled, and gunned the bike. With a screech and a cloud of burned rubber, he peeled the motorcycle around in a circle.

Orlando whooped with joy inside his helmet, almost deafening himself, and quite unconsciously wrapped his arms around Cillian’s waist. Cillian seemed to take that as a sign of approval and he put the bike through several murderous turns, using the cars in the car park as an obstacle course.

~~~

Boyle’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw Orlando walk in to the restaurant the company of Cillian. “You’ve read my mind, lad!” he exclaimed, motioning for the server to bring another place setting and menu. “Cillian give you an introductory ride on his new toy?” he asked, amused.

Orlando raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How…?”

“Well, you’re all flustered,” Boyle laughed. “Either that or he’s given you a different sort of ride.”

At this outrageous comment, Orlando’s already flushed face turned beet red. Able to squash the overwhelming feelings from the bike ride earlier, Boyle’s little joke brought them all back to the fore: the almost tactile memory of the solid feel of Cillian’s shoulders pressing against his chest, the taut abs underneath his forearms, the deep, musky scent of his skin at the back of his neck—so unlike a woman, yet so arousing. Combined with the rumbling vibration of the bike between his legs and the adrenalin rush of high speed, it had been difficult to control his face and body, and speak in a normal tone of voice once off the bike…

He looked at Cillian to gauge his reaction to the comment and found that he was just as red, but from suppressed laughter at Orlando’s expense.

“Christ, Danny. I swear you are gonna give him a heart attack before the shoot is over,” he gasped.

Boyle shrugged and grinned dangerously, completely unrepentant. “It’s gonna be worse before it gets easier, so he might as well get used to it. In fact…” he paused and opened his briefcase to pull out some sheets stapled together. He handed each man a copy.

“As you can see,” he continued. “This is a minor re-write of the scene at the drop-off point. I’ve added some extra bits to make it sexier.”

Both men read in silence for a bit, until Cillian muttered, “Bloody hell.” Orlando said nothing, but chewed nervously on his thumb, his face unable to get any redder.

“Seeing as you boys have that chemistry thing going, I thought I’d punch it up a few notches,” Boyle explained gleefully.

“You are an evil fucking bastard, Danny-boy,” Cillian told him, no small amount of awe in his voice.

“What do you think, Orlando? Am I as wicked as Cillian thinks?” Boyle asked, genuinely curious.

Orlando opened his mouth to reply god knows what, but nothing came out. He closed it instead and took a sip of water, hoping that his mind would start working soon before he looked like a complete idiot.

Cillian grinned. “I think he likes it.”

~~~

Cillian had finished his meeting with Boyle and they’d left the restaurant to walk a block down to one of Cillian’s regular hangouts. Cillian had been living in London for about five years now, and was very familiar with the party circuit and drinking establishments.

“Well then, I guess I have nothing to teach you about London party boys,” Orlando had told him, a bit wistfully, as they walked down the crowded street.

Cillian looked askance at him and grinned. “Oh, I think maybe you could teach me a few things yet,” he teased, making Orlando's stomach do that quivering thing again.

So Orlando sat with Cillian at a back table, wishing it was dark like an American bar, and gulped his first beer. The other patrons, mostly laborers on a Wednesday night, left them alone, which was nice, as neither one of them wanted to deal with being mobbed.

Cillian stared at Orlando's empty glass and pursed his lips. “Are ye upset at the changes, then?” he asked. “Danny does things like that, to rattle people.”

“No, I—” Orlando started, then shut up, afraid of what was going to come out.

“Listen,” Cillian said, reaching out and grabbing Orlando's wrist. “It’ll be ok. We’ll rehearse and you’ll be fine. Nothing to it. You did a nude scene in Troy, right? This is nothing like that, even. It’s just a wee kiss.”

Orlando stared into Cillian's green eyes as the re-written scene played inside his head, and wanted to tell him that it wasn’t just “a wee kiss” …

The scene was a pivotal one, where Orlando's character, Jamie, finally erupts with anger from days of growing suspicion of Cillian's character, Danny, who he feels is double-crossing him to take his share of the drug money.

 _They are at the drop-off point, a rocky beach on the north coast of Spain, waiting for the buyers to show up, when Colin, the third man in their company who set up the deal, pulls a knife on Jamie, and Danny kills him. Colin is obviously and vocally surprised at the betrayal, which fuels Jamie’s belief that Danny has planned all along to eliminate Jamie from the equation. Danny is holding the knife when Jamie accuses him of planning to kill him next. There is a lot of yelling and shoving and hurt feelings on both sides, with Danny accusing Jamie of being like all the rest of the people in his life: only able to see him in a bad light. They tussle and then get into a rip-roaring fist fight—a dirty, no holds barred, barroom scrap that leaves them both bleeding and exhausted, with Danny on top of Jamie, who, in his desperation, is scrabbling in the rocky sand for the previously tossed knife._

 _Danny, in his own desperation, yells at Jamie. “Fucking stop, you fucking twat! Listen to me!” Jamie ignores him and still struggles. Danny lets go of his wrist and grabs his head with both hands and yanks it to face him. “You’re being a fucking arse!” he screams, and then lowers his own head to kiss Jamie violently, full on the mouth, stopping Jamie dead._

As Orlando stared into Cillian's dilated eyes, The Cold Sweats crawled across his scalp. No, it wasn’t just a “wee kiss.” Both he and “Jamie” knew the difference. But he was determined, and committed to his craft, and he wasn’t going to chicken out in a Danny Boyle movie because he was afraid of his own feelings—or rather, what those feelings would engender.

“Yes,” he answered, acknowledging the unspoken question in Cillian's eyes, and threw open the lid of the box. Cillian smiled and tightened his grip on Orlando's wrist.

“No worries, then. Let’s get fucking pissed.”

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

Orlando realized that he’d been very nervous about starting the shoot, apprehensive of both Boyle and Cillian's treatment of him-but it went marvelously well. Boyle was unbelievably patient and Cillian absolutely professional. No double-entendres or inappropriate teasing on set.

After two weeks of shooting in London, the crew and actors took a ship loaded with their equipment directly to their location in Basque, the rocky northern shores of Spain. Since that first day that Boyle had handed him and Cillian the rewritten scene, neither had said a word about it. Looking at the shooting schedule, Orlando saw it would be coming up soon. They’d been rehearsing the choreographed moves for the fight, as well as the lines, hashing out the best way to go about it. But not once did they “rehearse” any kissing or did Cillian tell him how he was going to go about it.

Orlando thought he’d bring it up first, to prove to Cillian-or was it to himself?-he wasn’t nervous Once he was settled in his room at the bed and breakfast Boyle had got for them, he skipped down the staircase to the dining area, where a light brunch had been prepared.

Cillian was standing at the buffet, methodically shoveling a plateful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Amused, Orlando heaped his own plate with toast, fresh fruit, a bowl of porridge, and a cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

“You can sit down at the table, you know. No one is going to take your food away,” Orlando told him, grinning.

“Fucken starving,” Cillian growled, but sat down across from Orlando.

“I wanted to ask you,” Orlando started to say, but paused to butter his bread, trying to find the right words.

Cillian stopped forking food and waited patiently, staring and chewing. Orlando finally looked up to find green eyes boring into him.

“Um,” Orlando stuttered, suddenly unnerved.

“You wanted to ask me…?” Cillian encouraged, quirking a brow at him

Feeling as if he’d somehow lost his advantage, he took a steadying breath and tried again.

“I was wondering… I mean, I wanted to know if you wanted to go through the fight scene from beginning to end… so as we both know what to expect.”

Cillian grinned. “Don’t you like surprises?”

Orlando gaped. “What? I mean, sure, but this is my job and I’m being paid to know what the hell I’m doing.”

Cillian's grin faded to a small moue of disappointment. “Don’t you know what you’re doing? Didn’t we rehearse the fight until we were both bruised? Didn’t we rehearse the lines until we had them perfect? What else do you want?”

Orlando stared back. “I want to know-“

“I know what you want,” Cillian interrupted, his voice low and hard, pointing his fork at Orlando. “You want it to be safe. You want to be able to respond the way that you think Boyle wants you to. You don’t want to respond inappropriately. Well, he doesn’t work that way. He wants you to respond like Jamie would. And, goddammit, Orlando, you should know how Jamie thinks by now.”

Cillian went back to eating and Orlando stared at his plate.

“You’re right. I’m stuck,” Orlando whispered.

“What? What do you mean, stuck?” Cillian asked, his demeanor completely changed to one of compassion. It caused tears to prick in the corner of Orlando's eyes. He didn’t dare look up.

“I’m fixated on this. I can’t get past it. I’m … yeah, goddammit, I am afraid of how I’m going to respond in front of everyone. I need to know beforehand so I can…I can--“

Again, Cillian interrupted him, but not with words. Somehow he’d gotten around the table and hauled Orlando out of his chair and thrown him up against the far wall, making the paintings rattle.

“You jump off of fucking bridges with a fucking rubber band tied to your ankles,” Cillian growled. “You throw yourself down snow-covered mountainsides standing on a piece of bent wood. You didn’t know how you were going to respond the first time, did you? Why is this different?”

Orlando couldn’t speak. He just stared, open-mouthed.

Cillian grabbed the front of Orlando's hoodie with both fists and pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back again.

“Why is this different?” Cillian asked again, voice rising. “What are you fucking afraid of?”

Orlando's mind was whirling and he was in too much shock to grasp at any answers. His heart was beating double-time, the adrenalin pumping through his limbs, making them tingle.

Cillian shook him again, “Tell me!” he yelled.

Orlando pushed him off violently, and Cillian fell against the table. Orlando watched the coffee slop over the rim of his cup onto the pristine white of the tablecloth. Seeing that made him furious. It felt like an omen.

“I’m afraid I’ll like it! Like it too much!” Orlando yelled back, then immediately cringed inside. “Then nothing will ever be the same,” he whispered, more to himself than anything.

Cillian grinned and straightened up. “Now that’s more like it.”

Orlando's brow furrowed in confusion. This was not the reaction he expected. But what had he expected?

Cillian stepped closer to Orlando until he could feel the heat from his body. Orlando backed away but encountered the wall. With the tip of his forefinger Cillian rubbed the bunched skin between Orlando's brows until it loosened, then slowly ran it down his nose to the tip, where he patted it once.

“It’s a conundrum, acting.” Cillian whispered. “One has to be completely honest with oneself and others while one is playing false. It’s those actors who think that they can hide who they are while being someone else that are not believable.”

While he could appreciate what Cillian was saying, Orlando couldn’t keep his eyes off of Cillian's mouth. The lush lips were parted and he could feel Cillian’s breath against his own mouth, which, in turn, made Orlando's breath come faster.

He’s going to kiss me, Orlando thought for one dizzying moment. Then a door slammed and Boyle’s jolly voice was heard. Cillian stepped away, grinning. He sat back down and grabbed Orlando's buttered toast, taking a big bite.

“I keep forgetting you’re a virgin,” Cillian said with a wink, as Boyle walked in with his retinue of a dozen people.

~~~

It was a night shoot and it was bloody cold. Shades of Helm’s Deep flitted through Orlando's mind as he sat in a sling chair and sipped hot tea. He pulled his cap lower over his brow and tightened the blanket around his shoulders. If he felt sorry for anyone, it was the actor who played Colin, who had to lay in the cold sand and play dead, take after take. At least he and Cillian kept warm by trying to beat each other up. Interestingly, it was Cillian who kept fucking the scene up. Orlando couldn’t understand it. In fact, he was getting quite irritated over it. They were waiting for the guys to finish raking up the sand to make it look pristine again. Boyle had Cillian aside and was having a chat. Cillian did not look pleased. He seemed to be arguing.

Orlando shifted in his chair and took another sip of tea, watching Cillian nod as Boyle gestured at him one last time.

“Alright, people. Let’s try it again,” Boyle shouted. Orlando handed his tea to an assistant and pulled off the blanket. He stepped up to his mark and smiled encouragingly at Cillian. Cillian nodded back, an odd glint in his eye.

A production assistant clapped the slate in front of Orlando's face. It was a magic sound to Orlando. He became another person when he heard it.

 _“I’m next, aren’t I?” Jamie screams, pointing at the knife in Danny’s hand. “I’m fucking next! You’re gonna off me and take off with the whole fucking deal!”_

 _Danny’s eyes bug out with fury and shock. “What the fuck are you talking about, mate? He just fucken tried to kill you! I saved your sorry arse!”_

 _“Liar!” Jamie screams at him. The tears threaten to overflow from his eyes. “You lied to me from the beginning. I thought you were my friend, but you just fucken used me.”_

 _“I used you? You pathetic little runt. I was the best thing that showed up in your dead-end life. You are just like the rest of them,” Danny whispers hoarsely, his hand tightening on the knife. He advances on Jamie, who takes a step back. “My father, my teachers. They never gave me a chance, always saw what they wanted to see, and not what was there…”_

 _Jamie holds up a hand. “Stay back. Don’t come any closer.”_

 _“You fucken punk--“_

 _Jamie throws a punch at Danny’s head, which he ducks. Danny uses the momentum to charge Jamie and gut-punches him with a shoulder, knocking him flat in the sand. Jamie, the air knocked out of him but in fear for his life, kicks and punches blindly, connecting a few times. The knife is knocked out of Danny’s hand and they both grapple desperately back and forth, brawling like the street fighters they are._

 _Jamie sees the knife glinting in the sand. He reaches for it but Danny, in his own desperation, yells at Jamie. “Fucken stop, you fucken twat! Listen to me!”_

 _Jamie ignores him and still struggles. Danny lets go of his wrist and grabs his head with both hands and yanks it to face him. “You’re being a fucking arse!” he screams, and then lowers his own head to kiss Jamie violently, full on the mouth, stopping Jamie dead. ___

 _Orlando's eyes fluttered closed and he moaned softly as Cillian's tongue roughly invaded his mouth. He opened his mouth wider and sucked in the warm, velvet flesh deeper. His back arched without his volition and his hands came up to tangle in Cillian's hair. One of his legs lifted to hook over the back of Cillian's thigh._

 _  
_Jamie yanks on Danny’s hair, pulling him away from his face. “You dirty fucker,” he growls, and flips them both over so that Jamie is on top of Danny._   
_

_Danny grins. “Yeah, but you liked it.”_

 _Jamie’s response is a punch to the chin that knocks Danny out cold._

“CUT!” Boyle yelled. “Fucken perfect! Great adlib! That’s it boyos. We’re done for tonight.”

The crew cheered and several people ran over to Orlando and Cillian to help them get up, wrapping blankets around them and pressing cups of hot tea into their hands.

“So, tell me mate,” Cillian said, eyes and teeth glinting in the lights. “Has your life changed for the better or worse? Or were you making mountains out of molehills?”

“Bit early to tell, don’t you think?” Orlando shot back, looking back at a gleeful Boyle, who was waving them over to take a look at the shot. “He might ask us to take our clothes off next, the filthy pervert.”

Cillian collapsed in laughter, spilling his tea all over his trousers and then hopping around in pain from the heat of it.

Orlando looked on, feeling oddly exhilarated. “Looks like you may need to take your trousers off sooner than you’d thought.”

“Fuck you!” was Cillian's response as he did just that.

Orlando choked back a laugh at Boyle’s face as he and a trouserless Cillian walked up to take a look at the shot they’d just finished.

“What? That kiss affect you that much, Murphy? Can’t you two wait to get back to your rooms, for chrissakes?” Boyle joked, making everyone laugh.

Cillian played along, putting his arm around Orlando and making kissing noises in his ear. Orlando felt his face heat up, but he no longer felt like the butt of their private jokes. He was a part of it now.

As they stooped to look at the monitor, he realized that the kiss had changed him. But in a way he had not expected. It seemed he had been making mountains out of molehills. Giving it more importance that it merited. Well, the wrong kind of importance, anyway. He felt a heady mixture of relief and liberation.

Cillian still had his arm around his shoulder, and as Orlando watched Danny kiss Jamie in the monitor, he felt Cillian's hand squeeze his bicep. Orlando put his arm around Cillian's waist and got a blinding grin for his effort.

His scalp started to tingle. He thought it was about time to show Cillian the box and let him in.

He snickered at the dirty connotation.


	5. Chapter 5

Boyle liked his actors to know their characters intimately to be able to respond to any circumstance in any given scene. Boyle didn’t like to give actors direction, so much as give them a space to become. In his more generous moments, the script wasn’t the end-all and be-all either. If an actor adlibbed appropriately, he loved it. Or if the actor thought his character could be better served by saying something different, he listened and allowed the actor to experiment.

It was quite different to what he was used to, this shoot-from-the-hip, cowboy directing, but Orlando found that he enjoyed it. It challenged him, and gave him a chance to explore Jamie more thoroughly. Cillian and he spent hours sitting in their favorite pub, drinking pint after pint, discussing and rehashing and, occasionally, arguing loudly enough to be told to “Shut the fuck up or bugger off!” by the barkeep.

Back in London after the week of night shoots in Spain, Orlando eyed Cillian over his pint, still unsure of where Cillian stood in regards to any sort of “hooking up,” as the Americans called it. The green-eyed man had made no move towards Orlando since that one and only searing kiss, other than treating him like a best mate.

Of course, any sort of rendezvous would have been highly impractical, as there wasn’t a time when they could have been alone for longer than ten minutes, and sharing a bedroom would have been impossible without the entire crew knowing. Orlando didn’t know how anyone could find out, but he’d seen it happen on other shoots. He didn’t want to be just another piece of grist for the gossip mill. He assumed Cillian didn’t either.

So he sat and listened patiently as Cillian griped about his latest girlfriend, who’d given him the “ultimatum”: get married or piss off.

“Now what kind of shite is that, I ask you?” Cillian groused. “If she fucken loved me like she keeps saying, then how can she say she’s gonna dump me if I don’t give her a ring?”

Orlando grinned and shrugged. “It’s a rhetorical question, right? ‘Cause I don’t understand women at all. Might as well be asking me how many angels dance on the head of a pin.”

Cillian snorted. “Yeah, it’s rhetorical.” He rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands, covering his face as he did so. “Blokes at least don’t tell ya such rubbish. Ya fuck ‘em and they’re content with---“

Cillian's hands froze.

 _He’s just outed himself,_ Orlando thought, holding his breath.

Cillian slowly lowered his hands, looking up at Orlando beneath half-lowered lids. His cheeks were flushed and his lips slightly parted. He looked good enough to eat. Orlando grinned at the thought. Cillian grinned back, evidently relieved.

Neither one said anything for the moment, content to sip their pints and look into each other’s eyes.

“You are going to get me in trouble, you wanker,” Cillian told him suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Orlando choked on his beer. “Me? Fuck you, Murphy! You are quite capable of getting in trouble without my help.”

Cillian laughed. “Hardly, Bloom. I can’t get into much trouble all alone with my right hand.”

 _He’s given you an opening line,_ Orlando thought. _Are you gonna take it?_

“Depends what you do with it, I suppose,” he said, then cringed inwardly. Dumb!

Cillian nodded and looked down at his finger trailing through the water rings left by his pint glass. Orlando shifted in his seat and opened his mouth and closed it again.

“I know---“ Orlando began, then stopped to clear his throat and take a sip of beer. Cillian looked up, shy and hopeful. “I know what I’d like you to do with your right hand…”

He didn’t know how or what, because he didn’t notice any movement in Cillian's features at all, but suddenly Cillian was looking at him like he was dinner, and Orlando was quaking in his shoes.

Cillian leaned over the table and Orlando instinctively moved toward him.

“Remember what you called me, right after I kissed you?” Cillian whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the pub. “It wasn’t in the script.”

Orlando frowned for a moment and then blushed. “I called you a dirty fucker.”

Cillian's eyes darkened with lust. “Yeah. Do you want to find out if I really am?”

 _Oh God,_ Orlando thought, his cock swelling from limp balloon to lead pipe instantaneously.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cillian said, grinning at Orlando's dazed face. He pulled out his wallet and threw a couple of bills on the table and grabbed his leather jacket.

“Shall we continue this conversation at your place?” he asked, yanking Orlando up and throwing his jacket at him. “We’ll take my motorbike.” Cillian leaned close to Orlando's face, slowly trailing his gaze from his eyes to his lips. “Think of it as foreplay.”

 _Foreplay._ Orlando's knees wobbled, nearly collapsing back on the chair, his mind whirling.

“We’ll definitely go to your place, Bloomers. I don’t want my girlfriend to walk in on us.”

~~~

Orlando couldn’t really remember the ride back to his house. When he thought back to it later, all that came to mind was the smell of Cillian's leather jacket, the wind howling through his jeans, and his unbearable excitement.

Like in a bad television movie, he dropped his keys in the shrubbery because his hands were shaking so much, and then freaked out when he couldn’t find them. By the time they got in the door, they were breathless from laughing so hard.

“Fucken ‘ell,” Cillian gasped, leaning against the door. “I need a drink.”

Orlando was still huffing with laughter as he took off his jacket and threw it at the sofa without looking. “Straight from the tap?” he asked, unbuttoning the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t know what to expect, maybe Cillian laughing and punching his shoulder as he usually did at Orlando's silly remarks.

The last thing he expected was Cillian to drop to his knees in front of him and practically break the zipper in his haste to get the jeans down his legs. At the feel of Cillian's mouth on his already hard cock, Orlando threw back his head and smacked it hard against the wall.

He gripped Cillian's hair with both fists and Cillian scrunched Orlando's shirt at chest level with both hands. It was at this point, Orlando realized later, that he completely lost his mind.

“Fuck!” he yelled, loud enough to wake the neighbors. Cillian made a mewling noise and sucked harder. Something snapped inside Orlando…perhaps the latch on the box that he’d kept padlocked for so many years…perhaps it was just weeks of lusting after Cillian and being frustrated, never once allowing himself to wank over him. Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter. He had Cillian's head gripped tightly in his hands and his cock down the man’s throat.

“I’m gonna fuck your face until one of us passes out,” he growled at Cillian, who looked up at him and rolled his eyes back in his head and groaned. It was Orlando’s last coherent sentence for a while.

Orlando came back to himself sitting on the floor, back against the wall, with Cillian still on his knees before him, but bent over so that his forehead rested on Orlando's thigh.

“Jesus…” Orlando gasped. Cillian moaned. Orlando petted his head and Cillian raised it to look directly in his eyes. Cillian's lips glistened and Orlando couldn’t look away, knowing what it meant.

“What did you call me… earlier?” Cillian asked softly.

“Dirty fucker,” Orlando whispered back and shivered when Cillian licked his lips.

“Yes…” he half gasped, half moaned.

Orlando suddenly knew what he wanted. He pushed Cillian back until he was laying flat on the rug. Orlando realized the man hadn’t even taken off his leather jacket yet.

“You are one dirty fucker,” Orlando growled, jerking open Cillian's jeans. He yanked them down roughly. “Filthy slut, aren’t you? In such a damn hurry to suck my cock, you probably bruised your knees…”

Orlando watched in fascination as Cillian thrashed and moaned helplessly.

“Look at this cock,” Orlando continued, warming up to the game. “So needy, so fucken hard.…” He grabbed it and felt a thrill run down his spine to coil in his belly at Cillian's complete subjugation. I can do this to him, he thought, awed.

“Oh _God!_ ” Cillian moaned and thrust his hips, trying to get Orlando to move his hand.

“What was it that you said about your right hand?” Orlando asked, his voice full of mischief.

Cillian shook his head. “Please!” he begged.

“How much do you want it, my pretty little slut?” Orlando asked sweetly.

“Fucken Christ, yes!” Cillian gasped. “Want it! Want you to suck me.”

Orlando took Cillian's right hand and placed it on his cock. “Show me how much. Show me how it’s done…”

 _“Fuck!”_ Cillian yelled and squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, but fisted his own cock slowly.

Orlando watched and encouraged him with little licks and bites on his trembling thighs and belly. Not since he was young and had surreptitiously watched another boy masturbate, had he ever seen this. He didn’t even know what he looked like, never having done it in front of a mirror. It was an incredible turn-on and he felt himself getting hard again.

“Fucken hot,” Orlando whispered. “So hot…” He leaned over Cillian and licked his lips, wanting to taste himself on them. Cillian groaned then, and came hard, shooting straight up into the air, his come making a pattering noise as it landed on his leather jacket.

Cillian sucked air like a bellows and completely collapsed as if struck down.

At this point, Orlando looked around and realized they were still in the entry hall, and he had just bullied a man to masturbate in front of him. He felt both dirty and exhilarated, and wasn’t sure if he should feel ashamed or proud.

“Fuck that was good,” Cillian whispered, eyes still closed.

“God, I’m glad!” Orlando said with fervent relief.

Cillian raised his head to look at him with confusion. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I---“ Orlando shook his head. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Cillian let his head thump back down, grinning fiendishly. “Natural talent then, I’d say. “

“Does that make me a---a dirty fucker too, then?”

Cillian guffawed once and answered, “Maybe. Time will tell.” He looked at Orlando with shining eyes. “Needs to be explored. Deeply.”

“Um,” was Orlando's eloquent response. He blushed at the visuals that popped into his head. He looked around again at their disheveled appearance. “Well, this probable dirty fucker wants to clean up right now. I don’t want to stain this rug. My mum bought it for me.”


	6. Chapter 6

Orlando stared down the length of his shuddering body at Cillian's shiny black hair bobbing between his spread thighs. He had a death grip on the cold bars of the iron headboard above him, similar to the grip Cillian had on his ass cheeks. A bead of sweat trickled into his eye. It stung but Orlando didn’t wipe it away. He was on the verge of losing his mind--again--over the sensations Cillian’s evil tongue was causing and was afraid of what he’d do if he let go of the bars. He closed his eyes, let his head flop back against the pillow, and groaned long and deep. Cillian was now fucking his ass with his tongue and it felt better than he’d ever thought it would. His arms started to tremble and wondered if he could come just by this intense pleasure alone. So focused was his concentration he hiccoughed with shock when the answering machine switched on and his own voice blared through the small house.

"Oh Jesus I hope that's not my Mum!" Orlando ground out through clenched teeth. Cillian stopped what he was doing and wheezed with laughter, but stopped that too when the woman's voice started speaking.

It was his agent, nearly hysterical, telling him to call her as soon as he got the message. "You've got a reading with Ridley Scott for his new project--Liam Neeson is in! Aaaaaand... I just got off the phone with Disney. They're make a live-action version of their Pirates of the Caribbean ride and they want you--we're talking sequels here--and wait for it--Johnny Depp is already signed on! I'm going to go throw up now. Call me goddammit!"

The click of her hanging up allowed Orlando to breathe again, even though he was too stunned to move. Cillian scooted up Orlando's body and grinned into his wide eyes.

"You are living a charmed life, me boyo," he whispered. "Don't fuck it up."

He slithered off the bed and grabbed his jeans. "You're leaving?" Orlando croaked in disbelief.

"What? No, me boy. You and I are going to celebrate the fact..." He yanked his wallet out and dropped the jeans back on the floor. "...that you are going to be obscenely rich and famous and you'll be paying for me beer from now until the end of the world." He pulled a cellophane-wrapped condom from the wallet and flapped it under Orlando's nose. Orlando's entire body convulsed with the Cold Sweats.

Cillian grinned like a shark.

~~~~~~~~

Orlando lay sprawled on his belly, with his head under the pillow, hiding from the morning sun. He slowly stretched and winced at the delicious soreness all over. His

head popped up, reaching for Cillian before he remembered that he had left in the wee hours. Orlando's brow furrowed and he bit his lip, feeling badly about what Cillian's girlfriend was going to say about the love bites Orlando had left all over the man's body.

He jumped out of bed, heading for the shower, but stopped dead in front of the mirror. He tentatively touched a livid bruise above his left nipple, remembering exactly when Cillian had given it to him. His blood rushed through him, leaving him dazed--and leaving him to deal with an epic morning wood.

"Christ, you'd think you'd've had enough last night," he complained to it as he turned on the hot water tap. He jerked with sudden memory, his erection forgotten as he ran to the answering machine and pressed play. "Please let it not be a dream," he whispered, skipping through old messages until he found the one he was looking for.

He listened to the message three times through, his hand shaking each time he pressed rewind. He finally picked up the receiver but slammed it back down.

“Shit!” He ran back to the bath, reaching through the billows of steam to adjust the temperature of the streaming water and stepped in.

As he soaped up he touched the bite mark on his chest again and smiled. He'd forgotten all about the phone call in his terror that Cillian meant to have him, but it had turned out the other way around, and by then he'd forgotten his own name as he thrust slow and deep into the heat of Cillian's body. He thought about all the things Cillian had done, and allowed, that he'd never before permitted himself to even think about. The secret box was not just opened up for the world to look in; Cillian had smashed it to splinters. He could no longer hide his desires from himself, even if he’d wanted. Was he free though, or in free fall without a tether?

He looked down at his erection, still mindlessly needy, and thought about all the times he was too ashamed to wank over Cillian. He took himself in hand and grinned. He was accustomed to free fall.

~~~~~~~~

 _Its a conundrum, acting,_ Cillian had once said to him. _One has to be completely honest with oneself and others while one is playing false. It’s those actors who think that they can hide who they are while being someone else that are not believable._

But Orlando noticed the change in all parts of his life, not just his acting. Even his need to take life-threatening physical risks virtually ended. He was more confident, more... self-possessed.

At the wrap party, Danny Boyle had made his congratulatory speech, handed out gifts to the cast and crew, and toasted his two stars for their hard work and bravery. "Every film is a learning experience," he’d said, giving Orlando a self-satisfied smirk which he returned with a grin. "You are all like my own kids, so I would be proud to know you can take what you learned here into the next project. Let this not be your contretemps!" Boyle again toasted the cast and crew with his pint of Guinness and everyone cheered. "Looking forward to seeing you at pick-ups," Boyle yelled, and everyone groaned.

Much later that night, Cillian and Orlando had celebrated on their own, the knowledge unspoken between them that it was likely to be the last time. Orlando felt an almost painful gratitude for what Cillian had done for him, but Cillian wasn't interested in hearing about it or in having it expressed in a tender way. He wanted it rough and he wanted it hard, and Orlando found it physically challenging and satisfying, but that was all he was likely ever going to get.

They each moved on to their different projects, and in the next few years Orlando saw Cillian on rare occasions in London, usually at industry functions with a different pretty girl on his arm. They would always hug each other hard, kiss each other on the cheek, and Cillian would remind him he still owed him pints until doomsday. Orlando would tell him to take him up on it any time but Cillian never did.

~~fin~~


End file.
